


Last Judgments

by manic_intent



Series: Sabbaticals [2]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, That continuation of a modern AU where Yang is a designer, Unqualified art opinions, and Oskar is a CMO of Reinhard's company
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “So this too is art?” Yang said as he looked at a gigantic canvas covered in dead flies with bemusement. Standing where he was within arm’s reach of the display, there was a musty, vaguely acrid smell in the air that was possibly coming from the ‘painting’. Pulling his phone from his pockets, Yang took a careful photo with the solemn air of a man condemned never to understand Art.“Are you really one of the world’s most famous designers?” asked his companion with a snort. As the Chief Marketing Officer of the Goldenlöwe Group, Oskar von Reuenthal cut a striking, handsome figure with his unusual eyes and broad shoulders, clothed in a sleek charcoal coat dashed at his throat with a bright blue scarf. Yang had made an effort to dress for their visit to the Fondazione Prada in Milan, but his old coat and jeans made him look underdressed beside Reuenthal.
Relationships: Oskar von Reuenthal/Yang Wenli
Series: Sabbaticals [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865353
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Last Judgments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookiewooga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiewooga/gifts).



> Prompt by cookiewooga: 2/2: continuation of modern-day Reuyang in Milan. Hope you have a great day!

“So this too is art?” Yang said as he looked at a gigantic canvas covered in dead flies with bemusement. Standing where he was within arm’s reach of the display, there was a musty, vaguely acrid smell in the air that was possibly coming from the ‘painting’. Pulling his phone from his pockets, Yang took a careful photo with the solemn air of a man condemned never to understand Art. 

“Are you really one of the world’s most famous designers?” asked his companion with a snort. As the Chief Marketing Officer of the Goldenlöwe Group, Oskar von Reuenthal cut a striking, handsome figure with his unusual eyes and broad shoulders, clothed in a sleek charcoal coat dashed at his throat with a bright blue scarf. Yang had made an effort to dress for their visit to the Fondazione Prada in Milan, but his old coat and jeans made him look underdressed beside Reuenthal. 

“I still don’t know how that happened,” Yang admitted. He turned around to stare at the massive steel and glass cubes filled with dripping water and dead flies, scratching at his head. 

“This is a Damien Hirst. One of the most famous contemporary artists in the world,” Reuenthal said, gesturing at the vast fly wall installation. 

“You like it?”

Reuenthal’s mouth pressed into one of his mirthless, cold smiles. “I didn’t say that. Doesn’t mean it isn’t a highly successful piece of media.”

“How so?” 

“What’s the last Old Masters painting that you remember looking at?” 

“Uhm.” Yang wrinkled his nose. “Something at the Poldi Pezzoli, probably. There was a Portrait of a Young Woman—”

“That was one painting in a room, and most certainly not the last one you looked at. You don’t remember, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“While I guarantee that you’ll remember this forever, whether you liked it or not.” Reuenthal nodded at the fly painting. “That’s what I call effective marketing.” 

“Memorable out of a sense of utter disgust?” Yang asked. 

“Uncomplicated emotions tend to be more readily memorable. Disgust, hatred, delight, envy, hunger.” Reuenthal turned away from the fly painting, rubbing a hand lightly up the small of Yang’s back. 

“Confusion works as well,” Yang said. He’d been puzzled by the installation on one of the lower floors that had appeared to be a sort of blackened kitchen mat. If it hadn’t been surrounded by students earnestly taking photos, curled around it on the floor like so many eager fish, Yang would’ve thought it a misplaced welcome mat. 

“Which marketing campaign has ever worked by sowing confusion?” 

“By imparting misinformation? I can think of a few. Presidential ones, for example. You tell a sanitised narrative while maligning your opponent as much as possible.” 

“Would that be your recommended strategy?” Reuenthal asked, idly studying the watery cube. 

“You won’t catch me out that way. I don’t consult for free.” 

“We would naturally be happy to pay you a generous retainer.” 

“Seriously, talk to Frederica. She’s as good as I am. Probably better.” Yang pulled away, strolling over to one of the luridly bright paintings on the walls with his hands in his pockets. As much as he didn’t quite like the style, it was worlds better than flies, and didn’t smell like a disappointment. Students emerged onto the floor in a cluster of notepads and cameras, cooing over the cube and the fly painting. Yang hunched himself into his coat just in case, only for one of the girls to gasp as she looked at him. She checked her phone, whispering to a friend, who looked up at Yang, startled. 

Yang began to make his way briskly to the stairs, only for the girls to converge on him, smiling earnestly and speaking in heavily accented English. “Excuse me,” said the one who had seen him first. “Are you Yang Wen-li? Of Iserlohn Creative?” 

“Ah, well,” Yang mumbled, wondering whether to lie, only for Reuenthal to materialise by his side. 

“Yang, did you want to look at the exhibit on the upper floor?” Reuenthal said. He inclined his head as Yang glowered at him, folding his hands behind his back as the girls squealed and insisted on taking selfies. By the time Yang extricated himself from the excited cloud of students, he was exhausted. 

“It isn’t nice to lie to the younger generation,” Reuenthal said as they made the climb up to the upper floor. 

“So I should tell them that they’re about to enter a thankless, male-dominated, largely underpaid and highly competitive profession?” 

“Why not?” Reuenthal said, smiling his merciless smile. “It’d be a change from what design and marketing graduates get taught in schools nowadays. That what they learn will change the world and all that. It’s always depressing having to face new blood in the office.” 

“…I’m definitely not going to work for you,” Yang said. 

Reuenthal sniffed, following Yang through a large and somewhat more exciting exhibit of giant fibreglass mushrooms, dimly lit in red and blue. It was hot in the display and a little airless, however, and Yang was grateful when he got the requisite photo for his team and reemerged. 

Back outside the Fondazione, Yang said, “To think that when I saw ‘Prada museum’ on my itinerary, I thought I’d be spending the day looking at bags and clothes.” 

“It’s a museum for the Prada family’s modern art collection. Didn’t you read that in the brochures?” 

“Who reads brochures?”

“Don’t you design them?” 

“I’m not the one in charge of writing copy.”

“You don’t read the things you design?” Reuenthal chuckled. “You can’t be that lazy.” 

“You’d be surprised.”

“A normal person would at least pretend to have some shame,” Reuenthal said as they made their way to his Porsche.

“Over what? It’s true. Where are we going for lunch?” 

“Somewhere more likely to appeal to your rarefied design aesthetic.” 

Yang pulled a face. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

#

Part florist, part jazz cafe, part bar, Potafiori combined slabs of limestone, brass, and concrete with black lacquer furniture, the minimalist angles softened by a profusion of lush flowers in glass jars and verdant green ferns and palms. Yang gawked as he took a seat with Reuenthal by the high glass windows. A snatch of song furled outward from the direction of the kitchen as serving staff brought them crisp menus.

“Enough of an aesthetic for you?” Reuenthal said, so very smug as he inspected the menu. 

“All right, I’m finally impressed,” Yang said.

“Didn’t you like the last few restaurants we tried?”

“They weren’t too bad,” Yang said vaguely, being someone for whom a decent bowl of Irish stew was just as good as a nine-course degustation. 

Reuenthal sniffed but didn’t bother with a rejoinder. After they ordered, Yang got up to explore the bistro, taking copious photos and inspecting the shelves. By the time he returned, their food was being served between crystal goblets and sleek cutlery: bowls of pasta in colourblock ceramic plateware, sprinkled with cheese with wine to match. 

It was an excellent lunch. By the time they reached dessert, Yang was feeling better about his random travelling companion, and said so. Reuenthal chuckled. “So, I was a hindrance before?”

“Not so much a hindrance, more of a…” Yang made a winding gesture. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It feels like it’d be too troublesome trying to get rid of you,” Yang said as he disembowelled the chocolate fondant on his plate, crushing down petals into the lava that seeped out. 

Reuenthal raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his espresso. “I’m still trying to decide whether you’re fascinatingly rude or fascinatingly honest.” 

“Probably both,” Yang said, having been told as such by friends and enemies in unkinder terms. “ _I’m_ not so sure why you’ve decided to ruin your holiday by driving me around and feeding me.”

“Am I ruining a holiday?” Reuenthal said, setting down his cup with a wolfish smile. “Or enhancing it by gaining an interesting travelling companion?”

“Surely you don’t have time to take the entire year off.” 

“I don’t.” Reuenthal cut a delicate sliver from his cake with a fork. 

Having never understood the client CMOs he’d ever had to work for, Yang gave Reuenthal a helpless look and worked on his fondant instead. As he pushed the flower petals to the side, his phone buzzed. It was Frederica. 

**FG:** still in Milan?  
**YWL:** yeah  
**FG:** goldenlowe got in contact  
**FG:** thru reinhards pa  
**FG:** is their cmo still stalking u  
**YWL:** yup  
**FG:** weird  
**FG:** dw I’ll handle it from here  
**FG:** u ok?  
**YWL:** ya

Yang glanced over at Reuenthal slicing his cake into precise squares. “Your boss got in touch with Frederica.” 

“I thought he might,” Reuenthal said, eating a skewered cube of cake. “He isn’t a patient man.” 

“As long as he isn’t hoping that I can be talked into coming out of my sabbatical early.”

“Reinhard has an extensive understanding of boundaries,” Reuenthal said with a thin smile.

“That doesn’t sound remotely reassuring.” Clients and their tendency to disregard boundaries were why Yang had two phones, one of which was currently left in New York in Frederica’s care.

“Tomorrow’s the Salone. I presume you have a trade pass as I do. We should go early; parking will be a nightmare as it is. Was there any part of the exhibit you wanted to see?”

“It’s all furniture, isn’t it?” Yang said, being also the sort of person who’d purchased a set of IKEA furniture during his first job and hadn’t ever bothered to change it. 

“There’s a lighting section, a student’s work section, a luxury section, a normal section—”

“Ugh.” Yang rubbed his hand over his face. “Student work is always interesting, but I hate being recognised. You pick. I’ll follow.” 

“It’s impossible to finish the Salone within a day. Unless you want to keep returning for the rest of the show, you should pick. It isn’t my first time at the Salone.” 

“I don’t think I’d last the whole day, let alone more than a day,” Yang said, bewildered by the prospect of spending multiple days looking at chairs and tables. “Let’s just look at whatever you want to look at. Are you here to buy something?” 

“Not specifically, but we often re-outfit our offices every few years. Reinhard doesn’t like going through the expense, but it’s good for morale.” 

“That’s an idea,” Yang said, though it was Frederica who usually arranged this for the firm. 

Reuenthal looked at him with amusement. “You put on a good act.”

“Pardon?” 

“Making it look as though you have little involvement with the workings of your firm. Surely that’s not the case. You’re far too famous for such a thing.” 

“Fame is an illusion usually brought about by luck,” Yang said. “I try not to pay it any heed.” 

“It’s a useful thing to have. Why do you think you’re able to pick and choose your clients? Few other firms would’ve been so quick to reject work from the Goldenlöwe Group.” 

“It gives me plenty of headaches. Every project we work on nowadays gets put under a microscope. Mistakes—real or imagined—get talked about for days over all the design blogs.”

Reuenthal tilted his head. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d care about that.”

“I don’t, but the rest of the firm tends to take it so very seriously.” Yang scooped the last of his fondant into his mouth, the rich sponge melting over his tongue. “If I could afford to, I wouldn’t even take clients at all. I like design. I don’t like clients.” 

“You should be an artist, then,” Reuenthal said with a cold smile. “Start covering your canvases with flies.” 

“Urgh. Don’t remind me.”

#

**YWL:** I think I’ve seen more chairs than I’ll ever need for an entire lifetime  
 **FG:** haha  
 **FG:** we’re signing the goldenlowe contract tomorrow  
 **FG:** u’ll hv to sign an nda too even if u aren’t working on it  
 **FG:** I’ll fwd you the doc  
 **YWL:** ugh  
 **YWL:** can’t u just attach my signature to it via pdf  
 **YWL:** u know my computer pw anyway  
 **FG:** don’t b lazy

#

“Now this is a proper branded museum,” Yang said as they walked through the Gucci museum in Florence. “Product everywhere and attached to a shop. All about the brand story.”

“And you’d find this more memorable that giant plastic mushrooms?” Reuenthal said, studying one of the exhibits.

“Do you?”

“I can’t say I’m a fan of either,” Reuenthal said. “There’s a certain soullessness to the naked worship of commerce.” 

“Says the CMO of one of the most powerful companies in the world,” Yang said, amused. 

“Successful marketing is very much about understanding human nature,” Reuenthal said, turning away from a branded bicycle saddle. “There’s always an element of soullessness in people. By playing to greed and the illusion of opportunity, you can often get people to do what you want. Like invest in your products.” 

“That’s not the sort of strategy I prefer to recommend to my clients.” 

“We know. It’s why Reinhard was adamant on working with you. He…” Reuenthal hesitated, fishing out his phone from his coat pocket. “Excuse me.” 

Yang nodded, and Reuenthal walked briskly away to the elevator lobby to take the call. Yang wandered further through the museum, looking at the colours and patterns without reading the plaques. He’d never been one for luxury items himself, and his interest in the museum was more professional. Still, as a branded public installation, it wasn’t too memorable. 

Reuenthal returned with a harried expression. “Something’s come up. I’ll have to head for our branch office in Florence. Perhaps we’ll meet for dinner? I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll be fine. If you’re busy, don’t bother,” Yang said. Reuenthal nodded curtly and left with long strides. 

Alone, Yang finished the museum slowly and wandered out, staring aimlessly around the square before consulting the itinerary. He hadn’t had to look at it since Reuenthal had so unceremoniously insinuated himself into Yang’s life, and flipping through it now felt like he’d lost a page. He walked along the Ponte Vecchio, dodging tourists, but Yang had always found souvenirs a depressing concept. The queue snaking out from the Uffizi Gallery was equally depressing to contemplate. 

In the end, Yang found an unsuspecting pasticceria, ordered a coffee, and settled down to flick through the news. That proved a depressing enough exercise that Yang logged into the firm’s Slack to “check-in” on everyone, which ended up with him advising on any number of projects until his phone ran out of battery. Yawning, Yang left the relieved pasticceria and flagged down a cab. Returning to the hotel room that Reuenthal had picked, Yang charged his phone, set it on silent, and decided to take a long nap.

He woke up to insistent prodding in his flank and Reuenthal’s annoyed face. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Reuenthal asked. 

“Oh, you.” Yang yawned, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Nearly nine in the evening. Have you eaten?”

“No.” 

“It’s probably too late to venture out for a bite. I’ll call for room service.” 

Yang sat up, rubbing his back absently. “Did you just get back?”

“Yes, and I’ll have to return tomorrow. Possibly even head to Rome. Or return to Berlin.” 

“Oh,” Yang said, too disoriented by waking to hide his disappointment. Reuenthal gave him a strange look and got up to consult the menu on the side table. Yang slunk off the bed toward the bathroom, washing his face with cold water. He took longer than he should. His disappointment made little logical sense. He hadn’t known Reuenthal for long, and Reuenthal was usually the sort of person who Yang preferred to avoid at all costs, especially in a work context. 

When the food arrived, Yang asked, “What caught fire? If you can even discuss it.” 

Reuenthal picked at his pasta. “The CMO can’t be away during initial briefings for a project as important as a presidential campaign.” 

“Can you be both CMO of a company as big as the Goldenlöwe Group and manage Reuenthal’s election campaign?” 

“Reinhard believes so,” Reuenthal said as he ate. “It’s a pity that you aren’t on board.” He gave Yang a knowing smile.

Yang coughed and took a long sip of his wine. “Good luck and all that,” Yang said, refusing to give Reuenthal the satisfaction. Reuenthal’s smile widened anyway. There was something different about him now. Yang tried to put his finger on it as the food was cleared by hotel staff, as they sat out on the balcony of the suite with the rest of the bottle of wine.

“Shouldn’t you fly to New York to meet Frederica?” Yang asked. 

“If Reinhard deems it necessary. Perhaps a phone call or video meeting will be sufficient for now.” 

“It’s a little late to start an exploratory committee, isn’t it? And we’re not exactly the kind of country where a run by an Independent will do anything but damage.” 

“Perhaps the damage is the point,” Reuenthal said, taking a sip. Yang frowned. _That_ was what was new. Reuenthal looked like a hunting hound given a target, ready for a chase. 

“Surely the world that we’re in now has had enough of chaos,” Yang said. 

“It’ll have some semblance of order once Reinhard is in power.” 

“Do you genuinely believe that?” 

“Of course.” 

Depressed, Yang poured himself more wine. “Life doesn’t work that way.”

“You don’t think he’d be able to get elected?”

“The American public has a broad appetite for variance where elections are concerned. I try not to assume. Still, he’s young, charismatic, handsome, white, and extremely rich, all of which are factors that appeal to large swathes of the population. It’s his reason for wanting to be President that concerns me.” 

“To change the world,” Reuenthal said, though his smile was sharp.

“To gain a frightening amount of power,” Yang said. As Reuenthal merely inclined his head and took a sip of wine, Yang exhaled. “He’s already one of the most powerful people in the world. Why ask for more?”

“Why not?” 

“He’d likely have to divest himself of his extensive business interests.” 

“He’s prepared to do that.” 

“I don’t understand people,” Yang said, sinking into his chair. “If I had Reinhard’s money, I’d probably retire somewhere nice and warm and eat noodles all day, drink brandy all night.” 

“You lack ambition.”

“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” Yang said as Reuenthal refilled his glass. 

“It is. It’s wasteful. Why sit on your laurels when you could be so much more?” 

“I already have students chasing me down on the street and demanding CMOs accosting me in museums,” Yang said, tipping his glass at Reuenthal. “I shudder to think what life will be like with ‘so much more’. Ugh. I’d have to get plastic surgery to have a nice nap.” 

Reuenthal let out a snort. They finished the wine and retired to bed, but Reuenthal dozed off quickly, tired out by work. Awake in the quiet, Yang studied Reuenthal’s face, handsome but unfinished while at rest. He took a picture of it and rolled onto his back, resting his arm over his forehead as he hugged his phone to his chest. The Goldenlöwe Group was going to be a problem.

#

True to his word, Reuenthal returned to Berlin after a day more in Florence. Left to his own devices, Yang queued to get into the Uffizi, wandered around until he was bored, went to have a look at the David, then sat at another unlucky pasticceria, this time with a portable battery.

 **YWL:** r we really taking on goldenlowe as clients  
**FG:** taking on reinhard yes. not goldenlowe  
**YWL:** 1st time doing a presidential campaign  
**FG:** 1st time for everything  
**FG:** why  
**YWL:** I don’t like it  
**FG:** their CMO said something?  
**YWL:** not really  
**YWL:** it’s a bad year for a 3rd party run  
**FG:** it’s always a bad year for 3rd party  
**FG:** yang  
**FG:** do what you have to do 

Yang stared sadly at his cup of coffee. He drained it and ordered one more, as well as a selection of small pastries. While popping the first biscotti into his mouth, he looked up the next flight to Berlin.

#

Reinhard looked out of place in the rustic, bohemian chic of the House of Small Wonder, a colourful cafe crowded with potted plants and young people looking for something pretty for their Instagram accounts. No one spared Yang a glance, but Reinhard drew everyone’s attention as he strolled over and sat at Yang’s table. Reuenthal was handsome, but Reinhard didn’t just have the face of a model, he had a magnetic air about him, a charisma almost palpable as a physical force. A born politician. Yang felt depressed all over again as they ordered coffee from blushing serving staff. This was going to be an uphill battle.

“I’m surprised to see you,” Reinhard said. Unlike Reuenthal, he spoke without any trace of a German accent. “I thought you were on a sabbatical.”

“I still am,” Yang said. “I just wanted to talk to you for a while.” 

“Here I am,” Reinhard said, smiling, his piercing eyes bright under his golden hair. “Reuenthal said you might try to talk me out of running for office.” 

“He’s right about that,” Yang said, threading his fingers together. 

“Are you one of those people who think very wealthy people are a cancer on the world?” Reinhard said with a wry smile. 

“Objectively speaking? Yes. Immense wealth has a damaging gravity of its own, rewriting rules in its favour in new and toxic ways. If you want to get on the ballot, even with a mediocre campaign we can get you there, with enough money thrown in. It’s possible—again with sufficient resources, with a strategic campaign—to fund your way to the highest seat in the land.” 

Reinhard leant his cheek against his palm. “So why not?” 

“Because there’s a corrosiveness to such tactics that will have a lasting effect on the political landscape,” Yang said, tracing idle circles on the table with a finger. “Why do you want to become President?” 

“I could do a better job than the current candidates in the running.” 

“Probably. So could any number of people off the street with a healthy degree of common sense and a sufficient capacity for empathy. Why not them?” 

Reinhard smiled. “They don’t have my money or my ambition.” 

“You don’t have a track record in public service.”

“That’s clearly no longer an issue for the American people. The modern world is loud and full of distractions. In the dying world that we inhabit, people are often just looking for something to believe in. It doesn’t matter whether the person’s actually worth believing in or not.” 

“You’re certainly cynical enough for politics,” Yang grumbled. He fell silent as their coffees came, picking something off the menu at random. Once they were left alone, Yang said, “Is having the ability to achieve something sufficient reason to do so?” 

“Why not?” 

“Think of the millions of dollars you’ve earmarked for the campaign. Wouldn’t that be better used elsewhere? Down ballot, perhaps?” 

“And what would that do?” Reinhard asked, sipping his cappuccino. “Electing others into the same outdated, gridlocked, hyper-partisan structure where only a lucky few don’t have to keep turning to large donors for help paying the salaries of their staff. Or I could turn to environmental charities, you might say. Attempt to save the Amazon rainforest, or clean up the oceans, or undergo research that might cool down our warming planet.” 

“That was what I was going to say next,” Yang conceded. 

“You’d be trying to appeal to my morality, when you know that a presidential race is a matter of ego over morality,” Reinhard pointed out. “Every candidate in it to win is convinced they’d be the best, despite ample evidence to the contrary. Every candidate in it to win will have to burn a ridiculous amount of money to get where they want to be. Why are they any different?” 

“They aren’t in earshot of me right now.” Yang leaned forward. “You think the system is broken.”

“Irrevocably.”

“So why bother? Why not do something else? What _is_ sufficient power? Or will nothing satisfy, and you’re just hoping that a seat in an old building built by slaves would be sufficient?” 

Reinhard sat back, his smile fading. He glanced up as serving staff appeared with their food: a ‘biscuit benedict’ for Yang and a soboro don for Reinhard. “Reuenthal was right,” Reinhard said as the serving staff left. “You _are_ a very interesting man.” 

“Thanks?” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a design firm try to talk me out of spending millions of dollars on a project with them,” Reinhard said, dipping his spoon into the rice. “Miss Frederica didn’t express any personal objections when I last spoke with her.”

“She wouldn’t. To be honest, a project like this would allow us to drop the need to take other clients for at least a year. Maybe take on more staff. If you win, we will win as well: our fame will increase, we can be even pickier on clients, I can probably afford yet another sabbatical,” Yang said gloomily as he took a picture of the ‘biscuit’ for his staff. 

“Sounds good to me. So why not?”

“I don’t believe that naked ambition is a sufficient, practical, or moral reason to seek power.” 

Reinhard chuckled. “You believe that power should go to a man who doesn’t want power?”

“No. Such a person wouldn’t be driven to make the most of something like that. The people who do good in positions of power climbed there because they wanted it for the good that they could do. But they didn’t seek power for the sake of power.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” 

“Isn’t it?” Yang countered. “Maybe it wasn’t, a long time ago. Where you are _now_ , with your resources, with the world at your fingertips, there's no need for more. Save for the sake of having more.” 

“And you find that disconcerting,” Reinhard said. 

“Depressing, certainly. A shame and a waste.” 

Reinhard frowned at him, but Yang lowered his head and began to eat. He’d already said what he wanted to say, if awkwardly, and the effort made him hungry. They ate in silence. Only when their plates were brought away did Reinhard say, “I’ll think things over.”

“Oh. Really?”

That got him another frown. “You didn’t think I might? What was the point of flying to Berlin to talk to me, then?” 

“I thought it’d be tilting at a windmill,” Yang admitted, “but that’s never stopped me from trying before.”

Reinhard chuckled and daubed his mouth, getting to his feet. “I’ll pay for lunch. I’ve told Reuenthal to pick you up outside the cafe. Enjoy Berlin.” 

Yang found Reuenthal waiting outside, leaning against yet another electric Porsche, this one in red. “Dessert?” Reuenthal asked. 

“Surely you have better things to do,” Yang said, though he got into the car as Reuenthal opened the front passenger door.

“Not anymore, perhaps.”

#

**FG:** so reinhard called  
 **FG:** said he wldn’t be running after all  
 **FG:** but he’s still going to brief us on another product launch, some F&B thing  
 **FG:** u there  
 **YWL:** yes  
 **FG:** lol  
 **FG:** I don’t even  
 **FG:** a presidential campaign wouldve made us so much money  
 **FG:** gj  
 **YWL:** thx  
 **FG:** its not meant to be a good thing  
 **YWL:** maybe  
 **YWL:** money isn’t anything  
 **FG:** what is, then?  
 **YWL:** hm  
 **YWL:** a really good brandy  
 **FG:** lol  
 **FG:** never change

#

Reuenthal lived in a glass-fronted, multi-storey townhouse of minimal steel furniture and wood accents, with a vast library that stretched up multiple floors, accessible by an automatic pulley. “That’s the most impractical bookshelf I’ve ever seen,” Yang said as he stared at it from the ground floor.

“Most guests have the grace to admire it,” Reuenthal said, though he smiled thinly. “Drinks?”

“Brandy and tea, if you’ve got it.” Yang found the remote for the pulley-hammock-thing tucked onto a lower shelf. The machine made a faint whir as it lowered the seat, and Yang pulled himself on. 

“Didn’t you just say it was impractical?” Reuenthal asked as he headed for the kitchen on an upper level. Instead of walls, the rooms were separated by floors: an entire floor for the living room/lobby space, the kitchen, what looked like a home office, a bedroom, and a guest room, with bathrooms tucked behind wooden sliding doors. 

“I can see the novelty wearing off very quickly,” Yang said as he took himself up to a high shelf, chuckling as he found a well-thumbed copy of the Art of War. “Really?” 

“A useful read in many ways.” 

“Surprisingly predictable of you. Do you have a copy of The Prince as well?” 

“On the shelves somewhere,” Reuenthal said, unperturbed. Yang browsed as Reuenthal returned with hot tea and brandy, and he let himself down with some reluctance, sitting beside Reuenthal on the couch and topping up his cup with a shot. “You’re welcome to the spare room if you want to spend some time in Berlin.” 

“Only the spare room?” Yang asked as he took a sip. Reuenthal huffed, taking the cup from him and setting it aside. He kissed Yang demandingly, curling his hand around the back of Yang’s head, then jerking back and pulling a face. 

“I don’t understand why you like drinking that,” Reuenthal said, but bent in for a deeper kiss, easing Yang down over the couch. They kicked off their shoes as Reuenthal lifted his weight off Yang on his elbows, nuzzling Yang’s throat as Yang unbuttoned Reuenthal’s shirt. 

“Now that Reinhard is just going to use Iserlohn for a normal contract, why are you being so generous?” Yang asked, poking Reuenthal’s nose.

“Few things intrigue me,” Reuenthal said, nipping Yang playfully against the jaw, “and I try to hold on to the ones that do.” 

“We should move to the shower,” Yang suggested, “except the thought of climbing up four floors to reach your bedroom already exhausts me.”

Reuenthal rolled his eyes, pulling Yang to his feet. Yang made a show of being out of breath once they got to the fourth floor, pressing his hands to his knees as Reuenthal sniffed and dragged him across the chic bedroom to the hidden ensuite bathroom. They stripped down by the sink and walked naked into the shower, the warm spray curtaining down from a steel ring overhead. Yang arched as Reuenthal pressed him back against the dark tiled wall and bit down over his throat, bracketing him in with a palm beside his head. 

Hand slick with water, Reuenthal grasped them both and stroked roughly, more impatient than he’d been during their Italian holiday. Yang curled his arms over Reuenthal’s shoulders and let him set the pace, panting against his mouth in hushed moans as he pushed into Reuenthal’s grip, water sluicing down against them as Reuenthal brought them off with urgent strokes. Yang groaned as he came, the spurt of seed washed away in seconds. Reuenthal bared his teeth as though dissatisfied, turning Yang over to face the wall and sliding his cock between the cleft of Yang’s ass, thrusting in sharp jerks until he spent himself on the small of Yang’s back.

#

As they dried down and lay on the bed, Yang said, “I haven’t been to Berlin before. If you’re all right with me staying with you for a while, I’d love to.”

“I have other work to do even though Reinhard’s not progressing with the campaign, but I’ll make the time to show you around,” Reuenthal said, tucking Yang’s hair out of his eyes. 

“One thing, though. Can I just sleep on the couch on the ground floor? Nevermind the guest room, even your room is really high up.”

“…Don’t be so goddamned lazy.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my writing, prompt policy, other stuff: manicintent.carrd.co  
> —  
> Refs:  
> Potafiori: https://www.archilovers.com/projects/198464/potafiori.html  
> House of Small Wonder: https://www.cool-cities.com/house-of-small-wonder-25659/  
> Reuenthal’s house: haha https://www.metalocus.es/en/news/house-erik-spiekermann / https://www.fontshop.com/content/at-home-with-erik-spiekermann


End file.
